


Serve Me

by skyholdherbalist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Avvar, Big naked man covered in war paint, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fucking, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Licking, Light Dom/sub, Naked Cuddling, Pregnancy Kink, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top, what else do you need?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: There's no reason Inquisitor Léa Trevelyan, a woman of wealth and fame, should be so enthralled by a filthy Avvar goat-tosser.  So why did she ask him to come to her bedroom tonight?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is smut with Chief Movran the Under. Yes, He Who Throws Goats at Skyhold. 
> 
> If there is any other Movran smut in existence, please point me to it. I couldn't find any, so I wrote this. 
> 
> An accompanying song: [Unto Ashes - Serve Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_OeryIUtNA)

Léa was burning. Perhaps it was a warm night, or she was too close to the fire. It could have been the wine she drank. If she were honest with herself, it was none of those things. Flushed and flustered, she paced along the expanse of leaded windows in her room as she waited. 

Chief Movran the Under had accepted her alliance, and her order that he lead his clan to Tevinter. His eyes had sparkled beneath that horned hood, a mocking look that caught her attention. And it did not let go. Flushing again, she opened her linen robe, and nervously fingered the knots and straps of the thin, white sleeping dress she wore. She brushed cool fingers across her hot throat. 

Movran had laughed at her attempt to judge him, and yet he yielded to her power. It left her thinking about him, and thinking more, so much that she sent word she wanted to speak with him. Tonight. 

She was not sure why she had done it. That she wanted to proceed on good footing with the Avvar, yes. But also, she wanted to see him again, up close this time. When he'd laughed in her face, that loud, deep laugh that seemed to rumble up from his feet, she felt it. Everywhere. Léopoldine Trevelyan was not used to being mocked, and certainly not used to liking it. 

Léa heard her door swing open, and heavy footsteps climb the stair. Hastily, she wrapped the open robe tight around her, and knotted the cord at her waist. The tasseled ends grazed her thigh as she turned around. 

Movran stood, unshackled now, straight backed and broad, his cracked blue war paint turned dull grey in the candlelight. The horns of his headpiece glinted silver, and his arms, thick and hard as trees, were tensed. Two guards flanked him, though only two of them were unlikely to be effective, should he decide to become unruly. But Léa did not fear him. "You are dismissed," she said to the guards. They shared a quick, knowing look before bowing and exiting without a word. 

He folded the massive arms across his chest. "You wanted me." 

She nodded, and gestured toward a spot before the fire, in front of a heavy wooden chair. He followed her there. "Can I offer you some wine?" she asked, raising her own glass.

"Wine." He tilted his great horned head and smiled. His smile looked as sarcastic as it had in the great hall. "Yes, I will drink your wine." 

A small table near her chair held a carafe of northern Orlesian red, and the delicate tulip glasses she preferred. "I wanted to speak with you again," she said, pouring a glass for him. "I want to make sure we are not at odds in any way. Considering the circumstances of this alliance..." Léa trailed off, carefully avoiding the fact that his son's death was the cause of all this. She offered him the glass, and as he took it, she watched his wide, hard chest rise and fall with his breath. "I want to ensure that you—"

"I said my son was an idiot." He cut her off, though not with malice. "But I did what I must. I am happy with our... alliance," he said.

Léa set her own glass on the table and sat in her chair, puzzled by his reaction to this entire situation. The goat's blood did seem only a formality to him. Movran drank the wine, the glass so small and fragile in his large hand she feared he would break it. 

"Told you, I have better sons." He gulped the rest of his wine. "Six across four clans. Daughters, too. And I can have more." He smiled, and it was no longer sarcastic. It was... suggestive.

She would not press him further. "Then I thank you for serving the Inquisition, Movran the Under." 

"Serve the Inquisition?" he asked, carefully putting his glass down. His eyes sparkled with humor and belied his question. He was not stupid, nor mad, though it seemed to her that he was skilled at playing dumb, if he thought it was an advantage. 

"Those are the terms we came to, as I recall." She sighed, not eager to renegotiate what had already been settled. Eager to move past that, and on to something else. "If that is not amenable to you, I would just as happily put you into one of our cells," she threatened with a smile. 

"I do not know an Inquisition," he said, and his eyes seemed to trail away from hers, to follow her arm as she reached for her wine glass, and to her throat as she sipped. "I would serve you." 

She flushed again, surely she was bright red by the feel of it. Léa stood, and looked him hard in the eye. "I _am_ the Inquisition." 

He stared at her, a softer smile playing on his lips. "Then no disagreement." 

His eyes roamed her face. The other part of her, the part that was _not_ the Inquisition, had seen him up close now. And she wanted to see more. "Please take off your helmet." 

"Why?" he asked, challenging her. 

Léa gave him a sweet smile. She would yield to his challenge. "You have me at a disadvantage," she said. "You know my face, and I cannot see yours. It is rather like speaking with an Orlesian."

He smirked, and did as she asked, dropping the helmet and goatskin hood on the floor near his feet. And she could see his face now, his pale skin lined with battle scars and middle age. But also she could see his clear, hazel eyes lined with grey paint, the dark fullness of his beard, and the soft curve of his bottom lip. He looked youthful enough, and clever, and virile. Certainly as virile as he claimed... She wondered what that beard would feel like against her thigh, that full lip between her teeth—

"Do you want me to get you with child?" he asked. 

Léa sputtered, shocked from her reverie. " _What_ did you say?" 

"Give you sons." He was so matter-of-fact about it. "Strengthen your clan. More men to defend your holdings. Is that not done here?" he asked, dripping with sarcasm. 

She had to give him credit. He'd put his finger if not on, then near, what was in her mind. His offer—if not for children, Maker's balls, but for him, to _have_ him—sent a line of desire straight through her, from her dry mouth to her already wet thighs. "I don't think you—"

"It is something I have done for other clans." He stepped closer. "That's why you bring me to your bedchamber. And ask to see my face," he said, leaning toward her. 

"No, it is not," she said. Her heart beat steadily into her throat, and pulsing into her cunt. 

He closed the space between them, and spoke softly. "Then why do you stare at me like a starved wolf?" Lowering his head to the side of her face, he breathed deep against her neck, and spoke into her ear, "Why do you smell like that?" 

Léa shuddered, her breath trembling, and leaned away from him. She looked into his eyes. "I do not want, or need, your sons," she said firmly. 

"What _do_ you want? Why bring me here tonight?" His jaw was set hard. "Speak plain. You lowlanders never say what you mean." 

But she would. "I want to fuck you." 

He stared at her a moment, then he laughed, hard and deep. She felt it in her own belly. "Good!" he boomed. "Now we come to it." His hands wrapped easily around each of her arms and pulled her close, and he sniffed at her neck again, his nose stroking the skin of her throat. Her own breath hitched, her hips arcing toward him. Then he leaned back and just looked at her. 

She waited a moment for him to move, but he only smiled. "Well?" she asked. 

The smile deepened. "You said. I serve you now. Give me an order."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up a little longer than I anticipated, but hey, I doubt anyone will complain.

So Movran yielded to her again. He stood before Léa, his wide hands heavy on her shoulders. She guessed he was near twice her weight and a full foot taller. Yet he had not tried to intimidate her with his size or strength. He submitted, and waited for her command. Power was never something she had craved, but freely given like this, an exchange they both wanted—it was more intoxicating than the wine. 

"Take my clothes off," she ordered. 

She wanted those large hands upon her. And she was not wearing much, just a thin robe, a thinner dress with corset lacing in front and back, and warm air. He dragged his hands down to her waist and pulled open the robe cord, slipping it from her shoulders. She thought it would be amusing to see his thick fingers struggle with the delicate laces of her gown. She absently imagined he might grow frustrated with the task, and rip the soft fabric from her body, like a savage brute from a romance.

But he made quick work of the knots and ribbons. His nimble fingers picked apart each knot with ease, and tugged the laces loose at her waist, and breasts. He barely looked at his hands. Instead, he watched her watching him, with an amused smirk. He took her by the hips and turned her around to undo the corset at her back, and she felt his breath hot on her neck. The gown billowed from her body as it loosened. Last, he slowly pulled open the ribbon straps tied at her shoulders, one, then another, and the dress fell to her feet. 

Finally his hands were on her skin, the palms rough, but his pressure gentle. She felt the broad expanse of him flush against her, the dry cracks in his war paint on her back, the smooth fur of his pelts on her thighs. He brushed his fingers up from her legs, over the curve of hips and belly, under her breasts, and a thumb circled and pressed a hard nipple. She bit her lip and swallowed a moan. 

His lips brushed her ear. "Now?"

Reaching behind her, Léa grasped for one of the furs hanging from his waist, and took it in her fist. She led him to her chair, and she sat, the dark wood warm and slick against her naked skin. "Now take off yours."

Movran did as he was told. He stared at her, while he took off the leather and iron strap that crossed his body, and untied the cords of his fur arm braces. The thick suede belt unwrapped, and the hanging pelts with it. He unlaced the soft hide boots bound at his knees and ankles, and bent to remove them. Then the fur breeches, matted with paint and age. 

He stood naked, his only decoration the rough stripes of blue and grey war paint on his torso, and an iron band which hung around his neck. The paint, and his dark, coarse hair, set off the milk white of his skin. His body was dense with muscle from his neck to his feet—but stout, a man who fought and worked, then ate and drank his fill. His thick cock, half-hard, curved slightly and hung heavy between his large thighs.

It could have been the firelight, but Léa thought she saw a flush spread at his pale neck. The chair beneath her was wet with her desire. 

She spread her legs. "Lick me." 

His nostrils flared and he grunted an assent. His huge, strong body bent and knelt before her, hands on her knees. "You looked that way on your throne," he said, throaty and low. "Legs open. Ready. I wanted you like this." He pulled her to the edge of the chair. 

She felt his breath, and heard another grunt as he leaned forward. Then his thick tongue pressed against her, licked slow and hard, and she squirmed in the chair. She gasped when he reached her clit, his mouth sucking and holding her there, open and wetly kissing her mound, her folds. He gripped her thighs and somehow went deeper, his tongue in her center, drinking her. Her vision blurred, his white back, dark hair, and the firelight a haze of warmth. 

Thin whimpers escaped her as her fingers wove into his hair and pulled, and her legs twitched, her feet rising to his shoulders. She thought she heard a soft chuckle, but then he found her clit again, and she could only hear herself keening desperately. He circled it, lapped his tongue against her. She was swollen, almost sore, and she bucked against his mouth, fighting for breath. Something hard and thick penetrated her, it must have been his finger, and the pressure built as he stroked inside her, and licked her slowly. Another finger, and she hissed, her head fell back against the chair. 

Her thighs tensed around his head, and she felt the scratch of his beard against her skin as he moved, the quick pace of his fingers, the unhurried tongue. Then he sucked her again, took her clit in his mouth and pulled and rolled. She broke, crying out, a guttural moan, relief and want in equal measure. Even as she cried she knew she wanted more from him. 

He leaned back and laughed, his beard glistening with her slick, while she sank into the chair, breathless. He wiped his mouth and came to her again, licking her thighs clean. He licked up the length of her body. His hard, broad tongue painted her stomach, her breasts, her neck, like a bear after honey. She held his head in her hands and combed through his hair while his tongue explored her. 

When she had enough of that, she pushed him back onto the furs upon the floor. Some were her rugs, some his scattered pelts. He lay back, breathing heavily, his cock fully hard and flushed with blood, and his eyes sparkled again with the same humor as before. He knew what she wanted, but he waited for her to make the move. She got up from the chair, then crouched to the floor, and crawled to him, stroking his hairy, muscled legs as she moved forward, and swung her leg over him. Rocking herself along his length, she quivered at the feel of him on her still pulsing sex. 

Abruptly, he pulled her forward by the arms, and she fell against his chest. He smiled as he reached around her, and guided himself to her slick, wet entrance. The bulging head of his cock prodded her, and as she sank back onto him it burned sweetly. He stretched her opening, and a filthy moan escaped her as she took him deeper, the girth of him dragging along her walls. His rough hands were hard on her hips, pushing her onto him, and his neck was tensed and thick. He sighed, growling, when he was fully inside her. Filled and aching, Léa squeezed him with her legs, with her cunt. He twitched and murmured some Avvar curse, his eyes closed. 

She raised up onto her hands and began to move, her thighs still shaking from what he had done with his mouth. But he thrust from under her, his knees bent and his hands guiding her hips. She rolled, bouncing against his legs, her breath sharp and short as his cock moved in and out. His stomach and chest moved beneath her, and he softly groaned each time she sank onto his length. War paint flaked under her fingers as she scratched at the mammoth body beneath her. They found a tight rhythm, it nearly hit a perfect spot, and she ground herself against him, chasing her pleasure again, her back arched and long. 

Strangely, he laughed, and reached to stroke along her spine. "You fuck so pretty," he said, but it was not a compliment. He was mocking her again. "Like someone is watching you." 

She huffed, and squeezed him in response. He hummed appreciatively. "Aren't you watching me?" she asked, and thrust faster on his cock, frenzy buliding in her. 

"No," he said, his voice a choked groan. He kneaded her hips and sat up, his weight pushing her back. "I feel you."

He flipped them over, his heaviness and heat pushed her down into the furs, and he drove his thick length into her. A sudden sob broke from her throat, and he held her close. "Feel me," he said, panting into her ear. "Feel me."

Léa closed her eyes and felt his weight against her, the heat from his body. She raked her hands down to his legs and felt the curling hair that reached the hard swell of his buttocks, and felt against her belly the wiry hair of his groin rub her skin raw. She felt the dense slap of his balls hit her aching, wet cunt as he thrust into her again, and again. 

Then he took her knee in his hand and lifted her thigh, opening her further to him, and sank even deeper inside her. The heat built almost before she knew it was coming. Her vision darkened, her mind blurred, and her body spasmed with each jolt of pleasure, mewling and begging. 

When she could think again, she looked up at him, neck tense, face reddened, his eyes roaming her body, her face. "Do you want my seed in you, woman?" he growled, his breath erratic. "Tell me now." 

Each thrust sent little aftershocks through her. She fought the desire, from somewhere deep within her, to have him fill her, to feel him tremble inside her. "No," she moaned. 

He looked at her, and for a moment he was nearly tender, as his eyes fluttered shut and he pulled out of her with a groan. He sat back on the furs and panted, his cock wet and leaking. 

She crawled to him again, and took him in both her hands. He uttered a quiet curse as she stroked him. Her heart was slowing, and she rested herself against his solid weight. She nuzzled his neck, breathing in his scent—mineral, leather hide, fire smoke. A curious urge grew in her to kiss the white skin of his neck. Instead, she bit him, softly. 

Suddenly he breathed in sharp, and let out a shuddering snarl. He leaned his head against hers and cried out, urgent, needy, as he spent, arcing onto his stomach, coating her hands. She watched him, this mountain brought down to her, and in her control. 

After a few deep breaths, her pulled her closer, and lay back with her on top of him, his spill slick between them. Léa made a face at the sensation, and the mess, and he snorted. "You should not be so delicate," he mocked. "You must have killed many men to be thane of this clan." 

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Killing a man and being covered in his spend are very different things." 

He laughed at that, the deep, loud laugh that rumbled through her. "I've a mind to get on this bed," he said, nodding behind them, "and dirty those silk sheets of yours." 

Yielding, in her control, perhaps. But he would not let anything go by without a challenge. She liked it. "And I think you just want to learn how silk sheets feel," she said. 

He grinned, and sat up with his arms around her, and holding her by the waist he lifted her, _threw her,_ onto the bed. She landed with a soft thud, and made a show of looking far more offended than she felt, until he lay beside her and took her into his arms again. He let go only to stroke his palm against the plum-colored silk. "Slippery," he decided.

Léa smiled at him, at this strange man that should never have ended up in her bed. "I bet you could get used to it."

This time he did not mock her. He breathed in deep and looked into her eyes. "I could get used to you," he said in a gruff whisper. "The way you taste, the grip of your cunt." His beard brushed her skin as he bent toward her ear. "I could grow to want that." 

She shivered, though she was burning again, and wet, heated down to her center. She brought her hands to his cheeks and held him gently. "Don't die in Tevinter, then." 

He was quiet, staring at her. For a moment she thought he might kiss her. But he only threw back his head and laughed, the loudest yet. "No chance," he roared. "Many Tevinters will die. Not I." She knew he meant it, and he could keep his promise.

"Good," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. "Serve the Inquisition there." She shifted her legs around him, and moved to straddle him again, to grind herself against him. "Then come back to serve me."


End file.
